Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ Blood and Icing ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. But hey, Christmas is around the corner . . . so if any of you want to get me something . . . *hint hint* (Ha, ha . . . I wish!)

A/N: Sorry it's so late, but this chapter was a long one, plus with Christmas coming up everything has been really hectic around here and I haven't had nearly as much writing time as I've wanted. I hope it was worth the wait for you guys!

(Many thanks, btw, to the group "Project 86" -- I was listening to their CD "Self-Titled" when I wrote Vegeta's transformation. It makes awesome background music!)

Warning: Rated R. This is the only chapter rated R as of now, but I can't make promises for later, so I've changed the rating of the story. This chapter contains, in my opinion, the most gruesome deaths of the Z-senshi that I've written so far. If anyone finds extreme violence offensive, I suggest you read the beginning and end and skip the middle, keeping in mind that this is a Mirai timeline-type story (ie., the jinzouningen kill pretty much everyone).

All warnings given, on to the story!

Deeper Than Colour

Chapter Two: Blood and Icing

"Happy birthday, Kiokuuuuu, Happy birthday to youuuuu!" sang the small crowd loudly, especially a turquoise-haired young woman. Arms flung wide and head thrown back, Bulma crowed the tune with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than musical affinity.

"Woman!" Vegeta thundered when the song was over, removing his hands from their position over his ears. "You sound like a drowning animal! Do us all a favour and never sing again!"

"Yeah, babe," Yamucha laughed, wincing, "Maybe you oughta' lay off a little."

Vegeta rounded on the dark-haired human and raised a threatening hand. "Don't speak to her like that or I'll rip your intestines out!"

Bulma, impervious to the criticism, just laughed and rolled her eyes. "Kioku likes my singing, don't you, Kioku-chan?"

The object of her question and the centre of the party, the one-year-old Nameksejin, smiled unconvincingly, showing his small but gleaming fangs. "Yes, Bulma-san," he reassured her, silently wondering if he was ever going to hear again. He knew he could regenerate - Papa had told him - and the child briefly entertained the idea of ripping off his ears and growing them back later.

"Kioku lying, Mama," came a matter-of-fact voice from beside him, and Kioku laughed. Trunks-kun was six months older, and though he was a little on the sarcastic side, he and Kioku were the best of friends. "Papa right."

Everyone ignored the snorted "Of course I'm right!," focussing instead on ChiChi, Kioku's Mom, as she came out from the kitchen, stumbling beneath the weight of an enormous cake.

"Little help here?" the woman pleaded, her knees buckling, and her husband was at her side instantly, practically salivating as he took the confectionary delight from her and set it on the table. "Thanks, Goku-sa," Mama smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Ew," Trunks-kun scoffed, moving close to Kioku to whisper in his ear. "Your Mama and Papa getting kissy."

"No, no," Kioku hissed back, "Trunks-kun's Mama and Papa kissy. Not Kiku's. 'Member?"

His friend burst into a fit of hastily-suppressed giggles as he thought back to the time when he and Kioku had walked in on Bulma and Vegeta kissing. The two toddlers had erupted with laughter, yelling "EWWWWW!!!" at the top of their lungs, before being chased out of the house by an enraged Saiyajin Prince.

Kioku began rolling on the couch with laughter, and he leaned against Trunks-kun in hysterics. The two of them chortled away to themselves for a few more minutes, before realizing that everyone was staring at them, amused expressions on their faces. "Hi," Kioku chirruped brightly, "What?"

"Are you going to make a wish, or not?" Mama inquired, smiling down at him. "Make a wish, then blow out the candles."

The tiny Nameksejin scrambled off the couch and trotted across the room to the table, where he made a disgusted face - the top of the table was nearly two feet above his head. Yamucha-san noticed his dilemma and laughed, and the human got down on his hands and knees, providing an impromptu stool for the diminutive toddler. Kioku giggled and clambered up onto Yamucha-san's back, where he could finally see above the table.

Kioku stared at the gigantic cake with two candles burning merrily in the centre, and he broke out into a gigantic grin, shooting a grateful smile at Mama. Kioku screwed his eyes shut, thinking hard, then a grin split his face when he thought of the perfect wish.

Kiku wish, he thought, That Gogo won't be sad. Then Kiku can be happy.

Gohan, or 'Gogo', was Kioku's brother. Ever since Kioku could remember, Gogo didn't smile very much, though over the last three months he had gotten better. Kioku knew that Gogo was still sad because of the death of someone named Piccolo, Kioku's real father, who had died when Kioku was born. Gogo had told Kioku a lot about Papa Pic'o-san (as Kioku called him); a few days ago, the little Nameksejin had shown interest in his birth father, and Gogo had reluctantly begun to talk.

"He was a good man," Gohan said slowly, his eyes brimming with tears. "He's my best friend, Kioku. He . . . he saved my life so many times, and he was always there for me. You don't understand 'cause you're too young, but . . . Piccolo-san is everything to me. I never thought I'd have to be without him."

Kioku nodded solemnly, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from his adoptive brother, and he watched as that look came over Gohan's face again. The one where his sadness seemed to melt away, and a humongous smile crossed his face. "I remember one time," Gohan laughed, "Piccolo-san knocked me into a river, and I started to get swept downstream, but he caught me. He pulled me out . . . of course, he started yelling at me for being stupid enough to fall in, but I didn't notice that part. Or once, I invited him to my birthday party . . . I thought he was gonna' die of shock!"

Kioku giggled. "Gogo miss Papa Pic'o-san, huh?" he guessed.

The mask slid down over Gohan's features again, and he became the quiet, withdrawn boy once more. "Yeah, Kioku. I miss him. A lot."

At first, Gogo hadn't wanted anything to do with Kioku, but gradually, especially lately, he had come to accept him more. Not much, but at least it was something. Now, Kioku opened his eyes, sent Gogo a small, private smile, then blew out the candles. Everyone clapped and cheered, and Kioku jumped off of Yamucha-san's back.

"CAKE TIME!!!" Papa roared exuberantly, diving for the dessert, but the air in front of him blurred and coalesced into Vegeta-san, who blocked his path.

"You aren't getting all the cake, Kakarotto," the Saiyajin Prince lifted an eyebrow, holding back his struggling comrade without any difficulty. "Even I know you have to let the brat eat first - it's his birthday, stupid. And then it's my turn."

Papa stopped his headlong rush and grinned sheepishly, one hand to the back of his head. "Oops," he laughed, causing everyone in the room to burst into peals of laughter.

Kioku chuckled, and he and Trunks-kun rolled their eyes at their respective fathers. They were so funny . . .

Across the room, curled up in the corner of the couch, sat Son Gohan. The ten-year-old sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, watching everyone as they joked and carried on, completely oblivious to the other anniversary that the day represented.

One year ago, minutes before Kioku's birth, Piccolo-san had died. Died in the action of saving Gohan's life. What had followed was an entire year of intense loneliness, and pain so great that Gohan almost hadn't been able to take it, on several occasions. Pain, bitterness, anger, depression . . . all of them emotions that Gohan, a happy-go-lucky child, had not been used to feeling.

And now, merely a year later, everyone seemed to have forgotten.

"Hey, Gohan. How's it hanging?"

Gohan's head snapped around and he saw Kuririn, his father's best friend, standing by the sofa. "Hi, Kuririn," he smiled wanly and extended a hand, indicating that his friend could sit down. "I guess I'm okay."

Kuririn sat beside him and slung a companionable arm around Gohan's shoulders. "You're still thinking about Piccolo, aren't you?" he inquired softly, and an understanding smile crossed the human's face when Gohan nodded. "You're allowed to mourn, Gohan," Kuririn reminded him, "Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't."

"I know," Gohan found his eyes were watering, and he sniffled miserably, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I wish he was here. Everything's so different without him," Kuririn squeezed his shoulders encouragingly, and Gohan sighed. "Piccolo-san, he . . . he was my best friend, and . . . almost like another father. Sometimes he was around even more than Dad, just because Dad was always off training somewhere. And now . . ." he screwed his eyes tightly shut, pressing his fists against his eyelids. ". . . it's like nobody remembers him at all."

"Of course we remember him!" Kuririn countered, "He's saved all our lives, not just yours! None of us were anywhere near as close to him as you, but we still miss him."

"Everybody took his death pretty well," Gohan remarked caustically, shrugging off Kuririn's arm and shrinking farther back into the corner of the sofa. "Nobody cried at his funeral or anything."

Kuririn shook his head slowly, a look on his face that was halfway between pity and exasperation. "We all tried to be strong for you, that's all. And I'll tell you one thing - both your parents cried."

Gohan's eyes widened, and he glanced across the room at his parents. ChiChi was in the process of cutting the cake, and Goku had his arms around her waist, trying to soften her up so she would let him eat the dessert himself. ChiChi finally elbowed Goku in the ribs, and he let go, pouting. They didn't look sad at all. "Are you just trying to make me feel better?" Gohan demanded, "'Cause I hate when people do that. It makes me feel even worse."

"I'm serious!" Kuririn protested, "I wouldn't lie to you. I swear I wouldn't."

"Gogo want cake?" Kioku interrupted them, toddling over to Gohan with a gigantic slice of cake on a plate. "Kiku not eat, so Gogo have Kiku's piece?"

The toddler's grin was so infectious that Gohan felt himself start to smile back in spite of himself. "Sure, I'll have your piece."

Kioku beamed at him and held out the plate. The kid was wearing a goofy hat that resembled a jester's cap, courtesy of Yamucha, and the ridiculousness of it all made Gohan burst out laughing. Kuririn glanced at him in surprise, for he hadn't heard Gohan express any lighthearted emotion in a year.

Gohan's eyes narrowed as he regarded his dessert, which had two candles stuck in the icing. "Hey, kid?"

"Yep?"

"You're only a year old - so why are there two candles?"

Kioku broke into a grin that was so broad it almost looked like the boy was related to Goku by blood. "Kiku ask Mama to do that. One candle for Kiku, one candle for Papa Pic'o-san. So Gogo see Kiku not forget."

The demi-Saiyajin was floored, and he sat, mouth wide open and eyes nearly protruding from his face. "Kioku . . . how . . ."

Kioku smiled sweetly, and he clambered onto the couch. Kuririn took Gohan's cake and scooted over to give the kid room, and the pint-sized Nameksejin crawled up into Gohan's lap, cuddling against him. Gohan was still too startled to react. "Gogo love Papa Pic'o-san . . . so Kiku love Papa Pic'o-san, too," he glanced up at Gohan, and raised his eyebrow ridges in bewilderment at Gohan's lack of response. "Gogo not like?"

"No, Kioku," Gohan's throat tightened painfully, and he felt tears pricking his eyelids. "No, I like it a lot. Thanks," without warning, Gohan picked Kioku up and hugged him. It was a little awkward, since it had been so long since Gohan had hugged anyone, but he didn't care.

Kioku, meanwhile, was stunned out of his mind. He had never seen Gohan hug anybody - not Mama, not Papa, not Kuririn-san . . . nobody - and certainly not Kioku! Gohan had stopped yelling at him all the time, but he'd never come any where close to this. The one-year-old wasn't sure how to react, so he did the only thing he could think of; he hugged back, placing his small arms around Gohan's neck and resting his cheek on his shoulder. Gohan's body shivered, and Kioku wondered if his brother was crying. He frowned, because he didn't think anything had happened to make Gohan sad, but then . . . Gohan cried a lot whenever Papa Pic'o-san was mentioned.

"Kiku love Gogo," Kioku declared in a confidential whisper, and he placed a somewhat wet kiss on Gohan's cheek.

Across the room, Goku paused in devouring his cake as the scene caught his eye. "ChiChi, look!" he called quietly, his face covered in icing and chocolate crumbs. "He's . . . he's hugging him!"

Everyone in the room heard, and all turned to watch (including Trunks, who muttered, "Ew, mushy stuff!"). Gohan noticed, but he didn't care - somehow, he felt warm, and . . . and safe. It was exactly how he felt during those rare occasions when Piccolo-san didn't shove him away if he hugged him. Oddly enough, he got the distinct impression that Piccolo-san was in the room with him.

Close enough.

Gohan felt a rush of warmth spread through him as the mental bond that had been so long vacant was finally filled once more. "Piccolo-san?" he stammered aloud, causing the occupants of the room to glance at him in confusion.

Hey kid. It's been a year, Piccolo-san sounded uncharacteristically pleased with himself. I'm allowed to talk to you for a couple minutes, since it's my kid's birthday and all. I was supposed to talk to him, but I said that he doesn't even know who I am, and I'd rather talk to you.

Gohan smiled broadly, and he brushed at his eyes. "I've missed you," he admitted, but he was too excited to hear his sensei's voice to feel bitter over his death.

I bet you have, Piccolo-san's voice changed into a much sterner tone. But Kaio-sama says you tried to trade my kid for me a couple months ago. What the heck was that, Gohan? I know you miss me, but I always thought you were stronger than that.

The boy hunched his shoulders guiltily, ducking his head, almost seeing Piccolo-san frowning at him. "I know, and I'm sorry. He just reminded me of you too much. But I like him a lot better now."

That's good. It's been a year, you know. Life moves on. You can't live in the past - I should know that one. A noise carried through Gohan's mind that sounded like Piccolo-san had let out a sigh. I want you to do something for me, Gohan.

"Anything!"

Stop crying for me. Gohan's head snapped up in surprise, but Piccolo-san's voice overrode any protests he was about to make. I'm dead, kid. I'm sorry, but I am. Bitterness and anger won't bring me back, no matter how much you want it. I wish I could come back, I really do - it's hard sitting up here all by myself twenty-four hours a day, and I miss sparring and talking with you like crazy, but there's nothing we can do. I took that virus on for you so that you could live, but if you spend the rest of your life in mourning, it's like you died right along with me. That's why I left my kid with you - so you would have someone to talk to after I'm gone. I gave you life, Gohan - don't waste it. Life is precious. It took me years to realize that; don't make my mistake.

"I'm sorry," Gohan whispered, ignoring everyone's curious stares. "You're right, sir . . . as always. I - I'll be okay now," he brightened, smiling through his tears. "Your kid looks a lot like you."

Poor him, Piccolo-san snorted with sarcastic amusement. I hope he doesn't grow up scarred . . . But listen to me; I've got to go now, but remember something for me. When I spat out that kid, some of my consciousness stayed with him. When you talk to him, it's almost like talking to me. And you know what? If you hug him, I can feel it. All right? You got me, Gohan? You'll never have to be alone.

Gohan grinned crazily, and he caught up a startled Kioku in an enthusiastic embrace. "You feel that, Piccolo-san?"

Piccolo-san's dry chuckles affirmed Gohan's question, and all of a sudden it felt as though two strong arms were encircling him. Yeah, I feel that. Don't freak the kid out, though. He'll probably wonder why you're hugging him all the time when before you never even talked to him.

The black-haired demi-Saiyajin laughed sheepishly, one hand behind his head. "Yeah. I'll never forget you, Piccolo-san."

Darn right you won't! Make me a promise - when you die, whenever that is, I want you to swear that you won't have given up training. I'm not waiting in heaven for eternity just so you can show up and be a pushover when we spar.

Gohan started to salute when he remembered Piccolo-san couldn't see him, so he just laughed again. "Yes, sir! I'll grow up to be real strong for you, okay?"

Good. Well, time's up. Miss ya', you half-breed freak.

"I'll miss you, green-skinned alien," Gohan hugged Kioku one last time. "'Bye, Piccolo-san. I love you!"

Feh. I'd say 'ditto' if I didn't know you were gonna' get that goofy grin on your face. See you on the other side, kid.

Gradually, Gohan became aware that all conversation in the room had halted, and everyone was regarding him warily, as though he had finally snapped and gone insane. "Gohan-chan?" ChiChi asked timidly. "Are you all right?"

"Piccolo-san talked to me!" Gohan exclaimed happily, "He said they let him talk to me because it's been a year now."

Goku tilted his head to one side thoughtfully, then he smiled broadly, crossing the room to clap his son on the back. "I'm glad, son. Are you all right now?"

"Yeah," Gohan sobered up, and he looked at each of his friends in turn. "I'm sorry I've been so mean to you guys. Piccolo-san told me I don't have to cry over him anymore, so I'm going to try to be me again. I'm okay now."

Kioku clapped his hands ecstatically, and he jumped down to the floor. "Yay!" he proclaimed, with childlike enthusiasm. "Gogo all better! Kiku's wish is good! It worked!"

At that moment, every ki-sensitive person in the room clutched his head, wincing as thousands of life energies disappeared or reduced significantly. "What the heck was that?" Kuririn burst out, "A whole bunch of people just died! Is it an attack?"

Gohan's eyes widened in fear, and he - and everyone else - instantly turned to Goku for answers. "I don't think so. I can't sense any negative energy, so it couldn't be an attack. Probably some industrial building collapsed or something."

"Yeah, I bet you're right," Yamucha agreed, looking relieved. The rest of the group (minus Vegeta) let out a collective sigh of relief. "You guys wanna' go look for survivors, then?"

"Might as well," Tenshinhan nodded, glancing at his companion. "What do you say, Chaozu?"

"Sure," the diminutive telepath piped up, smiling.

Goku turned to ChiChi and raised his eyebrows, and Gohan recognized the expression as one that indicated Goku knew he was about to be chastised. "Uh, ChiChi? Do you mind if we leave for a bit? It shouldn't take long if we're just combing the wreckage for survivors."

ChiChi glared at him, staring him down until her husband looked away, defeated. Once it was clear she had established her victory, ChiChi chucked Goku under the chin, shaking her head. "Go on, Goku. Kioku's party can wait, right, Kioku-chan?"

"Kiku like Papa to help hurt people," Kioku nodded vehemently. "Kiku can wait with Trunks-kun and Gogo."

"What?" Gohan expostulated, "Kioku, I was gonna' go with Dad!"

ChiChi turned to him and planted her hands on her hips, giving him her famous "I-don't-think-so" stare. "Gohan, stay with your brother. Your father and your friends are perfectly capable of digging out survivors by themselves. Maybe if it were a battle I'd let you go, but I think you should stay here."

"Please?" Kioku tugged on Gohan's pant leg, leaning his head on Gohan's knee and staring up at him imploringly, eyes wide. "Please, Gogo? Play with Kiku and Trunks-kun?"

"Yeah," Trunks added, coming up to them and resting his elbow on Kioku's head. "Play with us. Teach us fighting stuff!"

Gohan sent a wounded glance at his father at the same time that ChiChi shot her husband a warning look. Confused, Goku looked back and forth from his son to his wife before finally coming to stand beside ChiChi, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Hey, Gohan, I think Mom's right this time. We won't really need you."

The boy sighed gustily, and he rolled his eyes. "All right, all right. I'll stay with the kids."

"Yahoo!" Trunks crowed, and he and Kioku pounced on Gohan's back, eliciting a rather out-of-breath "Oof!" and laughter from everyone else.

"C'mon, we'll use the Shunkanidou," Goku declared, and the others crowded close around him so they could grab hold of his arms. "It'll be quicker," he cocked an eyebrow at Vegeta. "You coming? Or is saving people too much of a bother for the Prince of Saiyajins?"

Vegeta crossed his arms indignantly, but Bulma covered her mouth and let out a loud cough that sounded remarkably like, "Couch!" Vegeta's eyes widened, and he strode across the room to stand beside Goku, gripping his collar. "I'm coming," he growled, "But don't make any cracks or I'll kill you."

"Right," Goku chuckled, "We know," frowning, he placed his two index fingers to his forehead, and the entire group shimmered and disappeared.

"Well, shoot," Gohan muttered, but he didn't have time to complain before he was mauled by a pair of boys, tugging at his clothing excitedly and shouting for him to teach them how to control their ki. Despite his annoyance, Gohan had to laugh. "Okay, tigers, let's go outside so we don't blow up the house."

"And we'll eat all the cake," Bulma giggled, hooking her arm through ChiChi's. "Let's go, ChiChi! There's a lot of food to get rid of before the guys get back."

Laughing, Gohan and his two new students ran outside to start their training.

******

The wind whistled through the streets of South City, whipping dust, papers, garbage, and scraps of fabric through the empty town. Large commercial buildings were cracked and broken, and most of them had toppled. Bodies littered the roads, lying in the wreckage, and some hung limply out of windows. All in all, it was the perfect image of a holocaust - but there was no evidence of any attackers.

"I don't like this," Yamucha murmured, casting his gaze about the desolate streets. "What the heck happened here?"

"It looks like an earthquake hit, but we would've felt one this big," Kuririn added, likewise keeping his voice soft. No one knew why they felt compelled to whisper, but something made it seem like an injustice to speak loudly.

"There's no life energy anywhere," Tenshinhan observed with his typical rationality. Chaozu was clinging to his leg in fright, and he rested a comforting hand on his friend's head. "Not one person survived, whatever happened."

"Of course. We made sure of that. Can't leave things undone now, can we?"

Everyone spun around at the sound of a male voice, calm and perfectly modulated - so much so that it almost sounded artificial. On top of the remains of what had once been a large semi truck, stood a slim, human figure dressed in jeans, a black shirt, and a bright red-orange bandana, with shoulder-length black hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked like a teenage boy, but something about his expressionless face and the way he held himself, made it seem as though he wasn't human.

Beside him, perched on the windshield with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin in her hands, was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who resembled the boy almost exactly. She wore a denim vest and skirt over a black shirt and leggings. Her facial expression revealed extreme boredom.

"Who are you?" Goku demanded, stepping forward. "What have you done to this city?"

"We are jinzouningen," the boy explained. "I am #17, and my sister is #18. And I think it is perfectly obvious what we have done to this city - we have destroyed it. We were looking for you, actually . . . Son Goku."

Some of the others gasped in surprise, but Goku didn't flinch. "If that's supposed to startle me, it didn't. Everybody seems to know who I am, and none of them have been friendly," he frowned, crossed his arms over his chest. "If you are jinzouningen, who made you?"

"Dr. Gero," #17's lip curled in derisive hatred, the first sign of emotion so far. "But don't worry about him. He has been . . . taken care of."

"#17, just shut up," #18 spoke up, "If we're going to fight, then let's fight. We've wasted enough time in blasting this city. We should have gone straight to Son Goku's house as soon as Gero was gone."

Goku dropped into fighting stance, watching out the corner of his eyes as his friends did likewise. Only Vegeta remained unmoved, arms crossed, a look of arrogant detachment creasing the lines of his face. "We don't have to do this," Goku warned, "I don't want to fight you. It's not necessary. This is a beautiful planet, and her inhabitants haven't done anything to you. There is no logical reason for you to kill everyone."

One black eyebrow lifted. "Of course there is. It's fun."

"It's fun if you actually start killing people and shut up," #18 retorted, "Come on! Let's get on with it!"

Yajirobe gripped the butt of his sword tightly in his fist, then he backpedalled rapidly. "I'm getting outta' here!" he shouted, "I couldn't help you guys anyhow, and I don't wanna' die! 'Bye!" he pulled out a capsule from his pocket, throwing it on the ground and jumping into the jet that appeared.

For once, no one scoffed at the samurai for leaving. Goku glanced at his comrades. "Listen, guys, maybe you'd leave, too. I don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You've gotta' be nuts, Goku!" Kuririn expostulated, "We're not leaving you! We're fighting with you."

"No kiddin'," Yamucha added vehemently. "You think we're just gonna' abandon you like that, Goku? You must be crazy!"

The ground shook as Yajirobe's jet took off into the air, and the two jinzouningen watched, apparently without interest. At last, #18 got to her feet in one graceful, catlike motion. "You don't want to fight us, then?" she asked, addressing Goku. "Well, then, fine. We'll make you."

She raised an arm, index finger extended, and a pencil-thin beam of light shot from the end of it. Two seconds later, Yajirobe's jet exploded in a flash of light, only the cockpit remaining, and the rubble plummeted down to the ground with a tremendous crash. Smoke poured from the wreckage, filling the air with the acrid smell of cauterized metal and burned flesh.

"Yajirobe!" Goku shouted, the pitch of his voice escalating up toward the panic level. The reluctant fighter had not been one of Goku's closer acquaintances, but he was, nonetheless, a friend. He spun on his heel and faced the two artificial humans, both of whom had evil grins on their faces. The typical Goku-like smile had dropped from his face, replaced by an expression of rage, and deadly seriousness. It was a look the Saiyajin only got when he was prepared to fight - to the death.

"All right," he growled, his voice low. "I didn't want to fight you, but I have to now. You can't threaten my planet and kill my friends and get away with it!"

Hands ready in fighting stance, Goku disappeared, then reappeared in front of the jinzouningen. #18 nodded shortly at #17, who blocked Goku's advance with an arm flung in front of his face, and the fight began.

Blow after blow were exchanged with lightning-fast frequency, neither side winning, neither losing. Goku fought with grim determination, phasing in and out as he darted around his opponent with super speed, but every time he moved the android was right in front of him again. A fist lashed out, seemingly out of nowhere, catching Goku in the jaw and flinging him backwards. Blood poured from a new gash in Goku's lip.

#17 smirked. "You aren't giving up, are you? My, my. That's too bad."

"I'm not giving up yet!" Goku gritted angrily. He flew in behind #17 and hooked an arm around the jinzouningen's throat. During the half-second of surprise, Goku drilled his knee into #17's back, at the same time yanking back on the cyborg's neck. His opponent let out a yell of shock and pain, and Goku allowed himself a tight smile.

The next second, Goku was flying sideways into the remains of a building. Jagged cement dug into his back, and the Saiyajin winced. A pair of leather boots met his downward gaze, then he was grabbed by the hair, his face yanked up. #18 looked down at him, glaring.

"You got lucky," she decreed, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder, where her brother was staggering to his feet. "But I'm not as cocky as #17 is."

This proclamation was followed by a vicious knee to the stomach, and Goku spat out blood. "Goodbye," #18 called, almost in a singsong voice, and she shoved a hand roughly against his chest. A loud whine filled the air as her hand began to glow, then a blast formed at her fingertips and flew straight into Goku's chest.

"Goku! No!" he heard Kuririn scream, then his vision faded and he was overtaken by blackness.

Yamucha watched in horror as Goku toppled to the ground, unconscious. Kuririn flew to his side, cradling the Saiyajin's head in his arms and crying. "He's still alive, you guys," Yamucha reassured Chaozu, who had burst into tears. He looked at Tenshinhan, and the fellow warrior's eyes narrowed in affirmation. "All right, let's do it!"

"Stay here, Chaozu," Tenshinhan ordered, "I don't want you getting hurt. Anything happens to me, I want you out of here."

"But Tenshinhan C"

"I mean it, Chaozu! Stay here!"

Chaozu nodded reluctantly, and his eyes shimmered with tears. "Be careful, Ten-san."

The three-eyed human offered a brief smile, though it was more of a reflex action than one of genuine comfort. "Yeah. I will."

Yamucha and Tenshinhan flew at the pair of artificial humans, intending to take them both on at once, but at the last second, the jinzouningen split up. The humans halted in the air for a split-second, then conferred in biting tones as to who would take on whom. It was quickly decided that Yamucha would fight #17, since #18 appeared to be the more dangerous and Tenshinhan was the stronger of the two.

It was soon evident that it didn't matter who was the more dangerous; both jinzouningen were deadly. Yamucha discovered this after being smashed in the face three times in rapid succession, breaking his nose, his cheekbone, and his jaw within seconds of each other. He clutched his face with both hands, blood streaming through his fingers, resisting the urge to cry out in pain.

"You humans are weaklings," #17 declared coldly, as he brought down his elbow on the base of Yamucha's spine. "It's pitiful how weak you are."

All mobility in Yamucha's legs disappeared, and he sank to the ground, having run out of the energy to fly long ago. He felt #17 kick him sharply in the ribs, turning him over, but he was powerless to resist. A sneakered foot came down on Yamucha's chest in a crushing blow, and Yamucha felt his breastbone shatter. #17 dug his heel into the remains of Yamucha's chest, grinding his foot in slowly. A maniacal smile lit up his face, giving him the appearance of a demon from a horror movie.

To Yamucha's alarm, #17 lifted a hand and pointed at him. Well ... this is it ... the human thought, but in his present state he wasn't too upset about dying. All he wanted was for the pain to stop . . .

Almost as though he had heard Yamucha's internal plea, #17 let out a low cackle. "You don't think I was just going to let you die, did you? That's not very nice!" he chuckled malevolently. "I'm going to make you suffer first."

A low-powered energy beam lanced out from #17's palm, striking Yamucha in the foot. Agonizingly slowly, the energy wave crept up Yamucha's legs, burning off his skin in the process. The melting flesh, nerves, and muscle melded together against the bone, causing more pain than Yamucha had ever felt in his life. It felt like liquid fire, racing through his body and cauterizing every nerve, paralyzing his brain. The sickening, putrid stench of his burning flesh caused Yamucha's stomach to heave, and he threw up, the foul-tasting liquid splashing all over his chest, himself too agonized to even try to wipe it away. He gagged as some of the vomit remained in his mouth, and he was too weak to spit the rest of it up.

Yamucha screamed.

Tenshinhan coughed, spitting out blood in frightful quantities, when he heard Yamucha's cry. It was like nothing he had ever heard before; it was filled with horror, fear, and tremendous pain, undulating with so much emotion that it almost made him sound like he was sobbing. Tenshinhan looked over at Yamucha, to see what #17 could possibly be doing to him.

A vicious kick to the head jarred Tenshinhan out of his reverie, and he found #18 regarding him coolly, one delicate eyebrow raised. "Worried about your friend, are you?" she asked casually, forming her fingers into a knife-hand. Without warning, she chopped through Tenshinhan's leg, severing the limb just above the knee. Blood spurted in all directions, and #18 moved out of the way, apparently to avoid dirtying her clothing.

"You should be more concerned about yourself," #18 added, appearing suddenly behind him. One slender hand reached out and grabbed Tenshinhan's arm, yanking it behind him and twisting upward with a sharp snap. Tenshinhan screamed as he felt his arm break in several places, and he sank to the ground, holding his arm to his chest and trying desperately to stanch the blood that was flowing much too freely from his leg.

Dispassionately, #18 shot out her hand and drove it into Tenshinhan's neck, causing him to retch and gag violently. Blood burst from the ruptured vessels, and the warrior began to choke as the fluid filled up his throat and clogged his windpipe. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling noise, and he retched again, blood staining his clothing and skin and mixing with the dust on the street. #18 stepped back, content that her prey would die without any further help, leaving Tenshinhan to perish alone on the battlefield.

Through the rushing in his ears, Tenshinhan heard a pitiful sound; Yamucha's voice, weak and hoarse. "Kill ... me," he was pleading desperately, "... Please ..."

Rolling his bloodshot eyes, Tenshinhan managed to catch a glimpse of Yamucha, and what he saw caused bile to rise up in his throat to mingle with the blood. From the waist down, Yamucha's body was a gory mess of bone, and scraps of muscle and skin. His chest was mangled and misshapen, the bones having been completely crushed, and his face was so battered it could hardly be recognized. #17 stood over him, shooting him with an energy blast, slowly burning the warrior alive.

Yamucha turned his head, and blood, saliva, and the residue of vomit trickled out of his mouth. "Ten..shin ..." he gasped, sputtering and choking. "Kill ... me ..."

For the second time in his life, Tenshinhan's eyes began burning as tears coursed down his cheeks. Propping himself up on his wounded arm - it wasn't much good for anything else anyway - Tenshinhan focussed all his remaining strength and channelled his energy into his other hand. Neither of the jinzouningen noticed, but Yamucha did, closing his eyes and smiling in gratitude.

"I'm ... sor..ry ... friend," Tenshinhan finally spat out, blood bubbling from his mouth, and he thrust his arm forward, sending the beam directly into what was left of Yamucha's chest. The human jerked upward once, then collapsed to the hard cement, lifeless.

"HEY!" #17 shouted indignantly, rounding upon Tenshinhan, eyes blazing with fury. "What did you have to go do that for?"

#18 burst into mocking laughter, pointing to the pitiful remains of Yamucha's body. "That one doesn't count, #17! The human killed him, not you," she grinned, then eyed Tenshinhan like a lion about to pounce. "That means I'll be two up, when I finish with this one!"

Tenshinhan was quickly fading into unconsciousness, and he knew what was coming. He was already disappearing into the next dimension when the foot came through his chest, crushing his heart. With one last, shuddering cough, Tenshinhan was gone.

#18, meanwhile, was shaking with rage as she watched her brother extricate himself from Tenshinhan's mangled form. "That's not fair!" she protested, "He was mine! Just because he killed yours, doesn't mean you can turn around and kill him!"

#17 just smirked. "Heh. I guess we're tied now, sister. So much for being two up."

"We'll have to see about that."

******

"No, no, Kioku!" Gohan chided, catching the toddler's fist in his hand and holding the boy up by the arm. "You're supposed to punch where I'm not expecting you, not where I'm already blocking! You're just going to get beaten up that way, silly."

Kioku's lip began to quiver, and his large eyes shimmered with tears. "Kiku sorry. Kiku try better next time."

"Hey, I wasn't getting mad at you, kiddo," Gohan interjected quickly, not wanting the child to howl. "I'm just giving you tips. Man, you're lucky you didn't train with your dad; he was a really rough teacher. He'd beat you up for crying."

A sullen frown creased the lines of Kioku's forehead, and he balled his tiny fingers into a fist again. "Kiku not crying," he argued, and he struck again.

At that very moment, a sharp pain jabbed through Gohan's mind as two large powers - Yamucha and Tenshinhan - disappeared. "Augh!" he cried out, holding his head in his hands, just as Kioku landed a punch on his face.

The little boy jerked back in surprise as Gohan collapsed to his knees, and he ran forward, shaking Gohan's shoulders. "Kiku sorry! Kiku sorry!"

"It's not you," Gohan staggered to his feet, face ashen. "Two of my friends just died, or got really hurt! I - I felt it!" leaving the two astonished toddlers behind, Gohan flew into the house. "Mom, Mom!"

"Gohan, what's the matter?" ChiChi set down the plate she was washing and knelt down in front of him. "Is everything okay?"

"Yamucha and Tenshinhan . . ." Gohan's voice shook, bordering the edge of hysterics. "They - they're gone, Mom! Something happened, the - the building must've collapsed on them! I've got to help them!"

ChiChi hesitated, then nodded. "Go ahead, Gohan. But take the kids with you, please? Bulma and I really can't watch them right now."

"Mom . . ." Gohan was about to protest, but he knew that it was the only way he would get his mother to consent. "Aw, okay. I'll be back later."

Running back outside, Gohan grabbed hold of Kioku and Trunks, tucking them under his arms as he took off into the air. "Where we going?" Kioku demanded, clinging to Gohan's sleeve in fright.

"To find Dad," Gohan replied tightly. I hope they're all okay, he thought desperately. I'll never forgive myself if they needed me and I wasn't there!

******

"Tenshinhan!" Chaozu screamed hysterically, watching helplessly as his lifelong best friend died right in front of him. The tiny fighter clenched his hands into fists, sobbing. "Give him back, you monsters!"

Across the street, Kuririn was still struggling to revive Goku, and it was doubtful if he had even noticed the deaths of his friends. Vegeta stood next to Chaozu, a silent witness to the massacre, a look of horror intermingled with disgust colouring his features. Chaozu's body began to shake with rage and grief, and a blue aura surrounded him as he powered up suddenly.

"No!" Vegeta reprimanded him sharply, "Don't do it, you fool! They'll just kill you, too!"

"I - don't - care!" Chaozu's childlike face transformed into a mask of anger, and he flew at the jinzouningen. "They killed Tenshinhan!"

He landed on #18's back before she could react, and he squeezed his eyes shut, drawing all his power to the core of his being. If Tenshinhan, Yamucha, and even Goku could not defeat these creatures, Chaozu knew he stood absolutely no chance . . . but if he was going to die, he might as well do some good before he went. Chaozu vowed he would not perish in a bloody heap on the street like his best friend.

"Goodbye, everybody!" Chaozu shouted his final farewell desperately, as he brought his energy together in one explosive force.

The pain only lasted for a split-second as his body was rent to pieces, and soon the life of Chaozu was never felt on Earth again.

"Ugh, that little creep," #18 muttered, and she shrugged off her now-shredded jacket, the only damage Chaozu's kamikaze attack had caused. "What a moron. I was trying to keep my clothes clean," she brightened, and looked at her brother with a kind of demented hope. "Did that one count?"

#17 shook his head, his black hair swinging with the movement. "Of course not! You didn't kill him."

"But he blew himself to bits on me, didn't he? That should at least be a half a point."

"No way! If you're going to play, play fair."

A... You ... demons ..."

Goku propped himself up on one elbow, raising his head, feeling the pain ripping at his body like wolves at the carcass of a deer. Kuririn rushed to support him, holding him up, but Goku waved him off. His friend took a step backwards, concern darkening his face, but he didn't say anything. His muscles screaming at him in protest, Goku fought to rise to his feet, locking his knees together to hold himself steady.

"This is all a game to you?" the tone of Goku's voice dropped to a low, furious growl, one that none of his friends had ever heard before. He had only spoken with that degree of passion once, on Nameksei, after Furiza had murdered Kuririn. "You destroy lives of innocent people, and you rack up points like you're playing a video game? You disgust me!"

"Oh, that's too bad, and I so wanted your approval," #17 sneered. "So what if it's a game? All of life is a game, Son Goku. It just so happens that destruction is part of this one."

"How dare you?!" Goku roared, and he flung his head back, hands balled into fists, as a wordless yell of wrath escaped him, tearing loose from deep within him. His hair flickered in colour, from black to blonde and back again, and his eyes turned to jade as that long-unknown power of the Super Saiyajin coursed through his veins. Blue-green lightning forked out from his body, striking the ground and creating a deep crater around him. Still, Goku continued to scream.

Kuririn scrambled backwards as the upsurge of Goku's power threatened to overwhelm him. Vegeta's eyes widened in silent respect, and he whispered, "Incredible!" Even the jinzouningen seemed surprised, a startled look passing between them.

The skin around #17's eyes tightened, and he held a hand in front of his sister. "This one's mine," he declared quietly.

#18 nodded, for once not arguing with him. "Fine. I'll take the other two."

#17 stepped forward, and he smirked, ever so slightly. Goku straightened up, his hair standing upright in spikes of gold, a malevolent expression hardening the lines of his boyish face. "I'll enjoy this," #17 proclaimed, "Let's hope you aren't as weak as you were before."

"The more pain you cause my friends, the stronger I become," Goku snapped, biting off the words like steel bullets. "You will feel the sting of justice before the day is done, I promise you that!"

"Oh, goody," #17 laughed, and he flicked his fingers invitingly. "Bring it on. I haven't had a good challenge all day."

Uttering a roar of challenge, Goku rushed at #17, fists at the ready, and the battle was renewed.

"I've got to help him," Kuririn muttered, clenching his fists and powering up, "Even at Super Saiyajin, Goku can't fight them alone!" he started to take off, but a pressure on his ankle kept him back. "What the . . ."

Kuririn glanced over his shoulder and saw #18 standing behind him, holding his ankle with one hand. "And where do you think you're going?" she inquired, "You humans are so supportive of one another, it's almost inspiring. Unfortunately, that's not going to make me spare you."

"I don't want you to spare me!" Kuririn growled, and he spat derisively. The trail of saliva hit #18 in the face, and slid glistening down her cheek. Her eyes hardened dangerously, and Kuririn felt a stab of fear.

"You shouldn't have done that," #18 warned, and her grip on Kuririn's ankle tightened. The bones gave way with a sickening crunch, and Kuririn groaned in pain. #18 wiped the spittle from her face, then tossed Kuririn casually into a building.

Mocking laughter filled Kuririn's ears as cement and glass rained down on him, lacerating his body, blood gushing from a thousand new wounds. "Do I have any skin left?" he muttered, raising himself up on his arms, muscles shaking from the effort. "I'm not finished yet!" he shouted at #18, who towered over him, grinning.

"Aw, poor little guy. Do you need help?" #18 grasped Kuririn's wrist and yanked him to his feet, but her knee was there to meet his stomach when he straightened up fully. Kuririn felt a number of ribs crack, but he held back the yell that automatically rose in his throat.

"I've got to admit, you're pretty tough for someone your size," #18 conceded when Kuririn flew at her, launching a volley of punches and kicks. It didn't matter how many times Kuririn dealt a blow, however; wherever he struck, #18 was there to block it. Enraged, he threw a vicious punch at her face - only to have his fist brought up against her hand.

"You're pretty cute, too," #18 laughed at the look of shock that permeated Kuririn's expression, overriding his internal battle mode. When Kuririn sputtered incoherently in response, #18 squeezed down on his fist with such force that every bone in his hand snapped in two or three places. This time, Kuririn could not repress the shout of pain.

#18 released him, and Kuririn held his mangled hand to his chest, panting heavily in pain, glaring up at her. The jinzouningen smiled wickedly. "You know, I bet the ladies are all over you," she remarked coquettishly, and with a sudden movement she caught Kuririn by the back of the neck, pressing on a nerve to keep him immobile. Smirking, #18 brought her knee up into Kuririn's groin with such terrible force that the human thought he was going to die right then and there.

#18 dropped him, then knelt down beside Kuririn's writhing form to whisper in his ear. "Too bad you can't father any children," she grinned.

Agony and nausea slammed into Kuririn from all angles, and bile, blood, and vomit rose in his throat so quickly that he could barely throw it up fast enough. Tears streamed from his eyes as he held his hands over the afflicted area, groaning. "Pain" was hardly an adequate word to describe what was coursing through his body at the moment, and it was all Kuririn could do not to sob like a baby.

The air in front of him shimmered, and #17 phased into being. Reaching out a hand, the jinzouningen clamped his fingers over Kuririn's head and squeezed, crushing the small human's skull like a walnut in a nutcracker. It was over almost instantly, the heart-rending scream cut off before Kuririn even had a chance to finish it.

"What was that for?" #18 shoved #17, sending him sprawling. "That's two of mine you've killed now! What's the big idea - can't you handle your own?"

"You were flirting with him," #17 hissed, shooting her a venomous glare. "I'm not letting my sister get involved with any of these pathetic losers!"

#18 threw up her hands, half in exasperation, half in disgust. "Honestly, #17, what is the matter with you? I was going to kill him in a few minutes anyway. What's the deal? You can play with your victims but I can't play with mine?"

"I don't call them cute!"

"Just because I'm jinzouningen doesn't mean I'm not a woman, too," #18 sniffed indignantly. "You have your fun your way, and I have mine."

#17 crossed his arms. "Listen, sis' . . ."

"No!" #18 cut him off, flying past him before her brother had the chance to react. She knelt down to where Goku was lying, broken, on the cement and picked him up by the collar. "It's payback time, brother dear!"

Goku opened his eyes a crack as #18 lifted him over her head. Through the haze of blood in his eyes, Goku was powerless to do anything but watch as his opponent raised a hand, fingers again in knife-hand formation. The next second, #18's hand plunged into Goku's chest, making him feel like his blood had burst into flames, then she wrapped her fingers around Goku's heart and ripped it right out of his body. His lungs followed.

Fire . . . pain . . . can't . . . take it . . .

Roaring . . . in my ears . . . where's . . . the wind?

Flowers . . . I . . . smell . . . flowers?

Where's . . . that light . . . coming . . . from?

Goodbye . . . ChiChi . . . Gohan . . . ev..er..y..o..n..e.............................

"So there," #18 smirked triumphantly, still holding Goku's internal organs. When she noticed this, she dropped them with a mutter of distaste, looking at her blood-covered hands. "Ugh. It's too bad battle has to be so dirty," she nudged Goku's body with her toe, and once she had ascertained that he was dead, #18 wiped her hands clean on the tattered remains of his gi.

Meanwhile, #17 was shaking with rage. "#18, what do you think you're doing? Son Goku was mine!"

"Not anymore," #18 glowered at him, hands on her hips, and #17 actually took a step backward when he evaluated the ferocity in her expression. "I figure the two you killed were worth Son Goku. You're always like that, #17; everything's fair until I do it back to you. Well, live with it."

#17 reigned in his temper visibly, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "Fine. We're even. Let's just get on with the battle before the last one attacks us."

"Right."

******

#18 dug into Kakarotto's chest, pulling out his heart and holding the still-beating muscle in her hand, then tore out the Saiyajin's lungs, as well. Laughing, the jinzouningen brandished the organs like trophies, letting Kakarotto's mutilated carcass drop to the ground.

Paralysed with shock and the slightest stirring of fear, Vegeta watched as Kakarotto collapsed, falling into a crumpled heap on the broken and bloodstained asphalt of the streets. Kakarotto's lips moved soundlessly, the colour draining from his face, blood seeping from the jagged hole in his chest, and one arm twitched feebly. At last, the Earth's greatest warrior gave up the battle for life.

Vegeta's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he felt the remaining flicker of Kakarotto's life energy disappear, and the Saiyajin Prince was alone in the galaxy. "It can't be . . ." Vegeta expostulated hoarsely, his eyes burning. Too agonized to be annoyed at himself for expressing emotion, Vegeta merely swiped at his eyes, hopelessly attempting to assimilate what had just occurred.

Kakarotto, he thought, his thoughts coming in short bursts, like his breaths. How could you leave me? Just like that, without warning? You . . . you let two windup toys get the better of you! How could that be possible? You were the only other warrior on this forsaken planet . . . how could you leave me alone? How could you?

His fists clenched, and a crimson stain began seeping through the white material of Vegeta's gloves as his fingernails bit into his palm. The blood dripped down between his fingers, a tiny mockery of what had happened to Kakarotto. No! Vegeta argued within himself. You can't. You can't be gone - I won't let you! I won't let those creatures destroy you!

Lifting his arms in the air, Vegeta felt a shout of despair rise from the centre of his being, and he let it loose, feeling the sorrow and rage inside him released in his cry. Tears left his eyes, creating burning trails down his cheeks, then suddenly, the grief transformed into something else; sheer, unadulterated power.

It was like fire. It was like electricity. It was like wind. It was like all those things, yet it was like nothing Vegeta had felt before. It filled every part of him, growing like a virus, spreading through him, replacing the blood in his veins and the oxygen in his lungs.

Closing his eyes, Vegeta screamed. His body began to tremble as the power became too great for him to hold it in, so he did the only thing he could think of to do - he released it. Yelling even louder, Vegeta flung his hands to the sky and let the energy course through him to explode into the air.

A loud crackling filled the air, similar to the sound of a lightning bolt, and Vegeta felt his hair stand on end. His eyes seemed to burst into flames, and his hair felt as though it, too, had transformed into fire. Vegeta opened his eyes, and without having to look, he knew what he had become.

I am a Super Saiyajin, he told himself, but there was no pride in the accomplishment. After years of trying to attain his goal, once it had been realized, Vegeta felt only a horrible emptiness. I was supposed to reach this plateau to battle you, Kakarotto . . . but I was too late.

Vegeta's head snapped up, rage welling inside him until he thought he would burst. "I couldn't fight you," he growled, "So I will avenge your death instead!"

The two jinzouningen spun around to face him as Vegeta raced toward them, energy crackling around him like a thunderstorm. "You will pay, witch!" he shouted, dealing #18 a hard punch to the face that sent her sprawling into a building.

The satisfied smirk didn't have the chance to fully cross Vegeta's face before #18 was back on her feet, charging toward him. The Saiyajin was knocked to the ground, blood pouring from his nose, but he barely even felt the pain. He had endured far worse in his training sessions, and Vegeta jumped into the air almost immediately. "You've got to do better than that," he challenged.

"Fine," #18 spat, her catlike eyes narrowing into a look of dangerous competence. "You're quite the spitfire, aren't you!"

"Shut up and fight," Vegeta growled, phasing in and out as he fended off #18's attacks, dodging punches and kicks that came too close to connecting for his comfort.

Suddenly, Vegeta's head jerked back as #18 grabbed a fistful of his hair, and she pulled back her arm, flinging the Saiyajin through the air like a rag doll. Before Vegeta had a chance to right himself, #18's boot slammed into the side of his head with crushing force, and he felt his skull cave in on one side. Blood flowed freely, like water gushing from a broken pipeline, running into Vegeta's eyes and gumming the eyelids shut.

Vegeta swore, wiping frantically at his eyes with his sleeve, when #18's fist slammed into his lower back. As Vegeta watched in horror, #18's hand appeared through his abdomen, covered in his blood. Pain came in waves, washing over him as though he were a pebble in the ocean, but Vegeta gritted his teeth and forced it back.

Anyone else would have been killed by the blow, but Vegeta clung to life stubbornly, the way a drowning man would tie himself to a life raft. #18 came into view in front of him, fading and reappearing as his vision threatened to go, sneering at him. "You humans are so weak," she laughed. "You're hardly a fight at all."

Anger filled Vegeta anew, and he roared in fury. "I'M NOT HUMAN!!!" he bellowed, bringing his hands together for a tremendous energy blast. "Die, jinzouningen!"

The resulting explosion of power sent #18 reeling, and #17 flew to her side, helping her up, only to be bashed in the face by his irate twin. Vegeta grinned tightly and he held one hand over the hole in his armour, wincing only slightly as his fingers came in contact with his intestine, wet and slippery.

Well, Kakarotto, I may be joining you sooner than you think. But I'm not going to die with a whimper - oh, no! The Prince of Saiyajins will die with honour, I promise you that!

Across the street, the jinzouningen glanced at each other, then nodded, preparing for a double-team attack. Vegeta flipped them the one-finger salute in challenge, and he laughed at the expression of anger that spasmed across both their faces.

Laughingly, without fear, Vegeta powered up and waited for death.

******

Kioku was quaking with fear as Gogo flew, and he kept his face buried in the fabric of Gogo's shirt. Three times since the beginning of the flight, Gogo had cried out as if in pain, yelling out the name of one of Kioku's friends; Chaozu-san, Kuririn-san . . . and finally, Papa. Kioku whimpered quietly, not wanting to disturb Gogo, though all he wanted to do was burst into tears. He didn't want anything bad to have happened to Papa!

He had asked Gogo what was the matter with Papa, but Gogo had only snapped at him in response, so Kioku had shut up. At Gogo's other side, Trunks-kun was making frightened sounds, since his Papa was the only person still alive, but according to Gogo, Vegeta-san's life energy was quickly disappearing.

On the ground below, a broken, abandoned city was growing. Gogo instantly switched course and headed straight for it, flying to a large alley where, Kioku noticed with horror, several dead bodies lay. Kioku had never seen a dead body before, but he knew what live ones looked like, and those ones weren't alive.

Gogo was yelling words that Kioku knew he would have been sent to his room for saying, if Mama had heard, and the ten-year-old dropped to a heavy landing. He all but dumped Kioku and Trunks-kun onto the unforgiving concrete, and as Kioku scrambled to his feet, using Trunks-kun as a prop, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Vegeta-san stood in the middle of the street, yelling really naughty words at two people, who didn't look more than a few years older than Gogo was. As the three boys stared, the two bad people (at least, Kioku assumed they were bad) stood back-to-back, thrust their arms forward, and fired two enormous energy waves in unison.

Vegeta-san didn't run. He didn't try to fly away.

He smirked.

Screaming in defiance, Vegeta-san was engulfed in blue energy, ripping away at his body. The other two shot a whole lot of disc-like blasts at him, cutting Vegeta-san's body almost to ribbons, not leaving very much left of him. What remained was a messy, mangled pile of flesh barely recognizable as Trunks-kun's Papa.

"Papa!" Trunks-kun yelled, trying to run forward, but Kioku held him back. He didn't want Trunks-kun to get hurt, too. Eventually Trunks-kun stopped fighting him, and he collapsed, sobbing hard. Kioku fell down to the ground beside him, and the toddlers clung to each other, crying in fear and sadness.

"Vegeta . . ." Gogo whispered, and Kioku looked up at him. The older boy looked around at the bodies of his friends. "Tenshinhan . . . Yamucha . . . Kuririn . . ." his voice broke, and he began to cry. "Daddy!"

The two bad people looked at them, and they laughed. "Oh, look, it's the sons," the girl chuckled meanly, looking at Kioku like he was a piece of raw meat that had gone rotten. "Except that green one . . . what the heck is it?"

"Who cares," the boy wrinkled his nose. "They're not enough of a fight. Let's come back for them in about ten years, when they might be some threat to us."

"Yeah, right," she disagreed, then the two of them flew into the air and disappeared.

"Daddy," Gogo cried, his tone sounding more and more desperate every time he said it. "Daddy . . . no . . . DADDY! Come back!"

The next second, Kioku and Trunks-kun backed away in fright, because something happened to Gogo that they had never seen before. He started screaming, loud and deep, his head thrown back and fists raised, and blue lightning started shooting from his body. All of a sudden, Gogo's black hair turned brilliant gold, and his eyes burned a bright green. Still crying, Gogo smashed his fist into one of the walls, and the entire building collapsed with a rumble. The rocks and chunks of cement that fell on him were disintegrated by the wall of fire surrounding him.

Trunks-kun staggered to his feet, and he ran across the street, stumbling on loose stones and body parts, until he came to what was left of his father. "Papa?" he called out, reaching out a tiny hand to touch the charred, bloody body. He held his hand in front of his face, staring at the blood that coloured his fingers as though he didn't believe it was real.

"No! Papa! Papa can't be gone!" Trunks yelled, and for a split-second his hair and eyes turned to the same colour as Gogo's before returning to normal. Weeping, Trunks flung himself on his Papa's body, burying his face in the remains of his chest, his small body shaking violently. "Papa," he whispered.

At the same time, Kioku was scrambling over the rocks and broken bodies, trying his hardest not to look at them, not wanting to know who they were. He didn't want to remember Kuririn-san like that, with his head smashed in, or Yamucha-san without any lower body, or Tenshinhan-san with that hole in his throat.

Finally, Kioku came to the battered form of his Papa. Kneeling down at his father's side, Kioku stretched out his small hands and lightly touched Papa's face, trying to clean the blood off with his fingers. His Papa's eyes were open, white and glassy and empty, and they made Kioku want to scream.

But that wasn't as bad as the humongous, gaping hole in Papa's chest. Something was wrong about that hole, but Kioku didn't know what it was. Something was . . . missing. Shaking his head as he was suddenly gripped with terror, Kioku backpedalled hastily. He didn't want to know what seemed so weird about Papa's chest.

Suddenly, Kioku found himself lying face-down on the cement, having slipped on something. Startled, Kioku looked down at his feet and let out a shrill scream.

He had stepped on something red and bloody; Papa's heart. There it was, sitting on the road, slimy and wet, instead of being inside Papa's chest where it belonged. Kioku's breath began to hitch in his chest and he sobbed hysterically, unable to control himself, as he frantically attempted to wipe the heart-slime off his pants, but to no avail.

Pain . . . horrible, unconquerable pain . . .

There was a hole where his chest should be, and the boy was flying behind him. What? The boy had flown straight through him! No! That wasn't possible! That couldn't be right! He was the Demon King - some little punk wasn't supposed to be able to kill him!

But it was true. He was dying. Nausea built up inside him, and he began to vomit, sickly greenish liquid spewing forth from his throat.

His son would live. His son would avenge him.

Kioku's eyes snapped open, and his breath shortened. What was that? It felt like something that had actually happened to him! It was like a real, live memory, but Kioku knew no boy had ever flown straight through him before. Whatever it was, memory or dream, it sure was scary!

Whimpering, too exhausted to cry anymore, Kioku crawled on top of Papa's body and hugged him, trying to pretend he didn't feel the hole underneath him, the warm blood staining his clothes. "Papa," was all he could say.

The various sobbing died down as the boys wore themselves out from crying, and the sound was replaced by the whistling of wind through the alleyways. But gradually, filling the ears of the one and a half-year-old and the ten-year-old, came a soft, disjointed sound, a quiet song.

It was the sound of Kioku, singing brokenly to himself, hiccups interrupting his words:

"Happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday dear Kiku . . ."

******

A/N: *Sniff* That was awful, I know! I don't like killing off the senshi, I really don't! Poor Kioku -- talk about being scarred for life, eh? O yeah . . . my sister said I should add that I don't hate Yamucha, Tenshinhan, Kuririn, or any of the fighters who got the more gory deaths. She said it sounds like I hate them and I'm majorly bashing them, so in case any of you got the same impression; I don't. I like all the fighters. 'Kay? (And no, Vegeta isn't my favourite character. Piccolo is. It was just Vegeta's glory moment in the battle there... ^^)

Ah, yes. I realize Kioku hasn't exactly been the main character in these chapters, but from the next chapter on, he will be. As far as I can tell, the story will be from his point of view from now on. Sorry for the wait.

Next chapter should be out after New Year, probably. Warning, there's a two-year time lapse between this chapter and the next, so don't be confused. ^^ Until we meet again, happy holidays!